


Overwhelmed

by LeilaSecretSmith (orphan_account)



Series: Nolo Aeternitam [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, I just needed to write this because I'm having a bad day, Reincarnation, Sensory Deprivation, Sensory Overstimulation, Species Swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 06:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LeilaSecretSmith
Summary: Nothing about this afterlife makes sense. Nothing about this world makes sense, but I guess that’s what I deserve. What I do know is that because nothing makes sense, everything is ten times as overwhelming. It doesn’t help that all my senses have been ratcheted up to 11, or that my soul often bleeds from my body like watercolors over wet paper.





	Overwhelmed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having a very bad day, sensory-wise, so I got it all out of me by writing this. Might become a series. Very therapeutic.

Nothing about this afterlife makes sense. Nothing about this _world_ makes sense, but I guess that’s what I deserve. What I do know is that because nothing makes sense, everything is ten times as overwhelming. It doesn’t help that all my senses have been ratcheted up to 11, or that my soul often bleeds from my body like watercolors over wet paper.

Oh, excuse me, I meant my _fёa_ bleeds out of my _fána._ Not _hröa_ , that’s an important distinction.

Noises crawl under my skin like ants, chewing and burrowing and leaving little trails of fire until it feels like my eardrums are bleeding—on bad days, the mere rustling of leaves will do it. On really bad days, my own heartbeat will suffice. Sensations are worse, especially clothing or grit. I can feel every fiber, every particle, and it makes me want to claw my eyes out, if only to drown it all out in pain. I try sometimes, but they never let me.

Colors are easy to block out, or even soothing sometimes, but I can’t really open my eyes for too long. The colors are just too vivid, too _real_ compared to my washed-out, sepia-toned memories.

I often cry from the sheer unfairness of it all.

I can’t eat anymore either. My new caregivers must either time their offerings of smooth, bland food very carefully or else sedate me and shove it quickly down my throat. I’m honestly not sure which is worse. Even the mildest of flavors explode on my tongue like fireworks. I passed out eating an apple—the first and last thing I willingly tried to eat here.

It’s always too much at once, though some days are far worse than others.

Today is a very, very bad day.

I’m sitting in a shallow, bowl-like bed—a nest of blankets and pillows, really—beneath a shady pavilion in the Gardens, my arms wrapped around my knees and my face buried safely away from the light. Leaves rustle softly in a cool breeze that skims by bare skin with soothing fingers. The air smells green and fresh, leaves and soil baked in the warm light.

My skin feels tight, flayed to strips and sewn back on a size too small. My chest is so constricted that the only breaths I can draw in are shallow, ragged things that rasp painfully over my lips. My head pounds to the beat of my heart. I weep helplessly, feeling like I’m going to vibrate right out of my body from aimless, unquenchable terror.

I might. It’s happened before.

He comes, and I feel his presence like a sunbeam across my soul. Some days that would make me better, but today I curl tighter and sob in agony, something like _go away_ escaping me.

 _Shh,_ he soothes, carefully. _Shh, I have brought you a gift._ The only gift I want is death—real death—but he already knows, and they will not grant it to me. Hands touch my head with impossible gentleness, but even this makes the band around my lungs tighten until I can’t breathe at all. He raises my face and I flinch from the light that seeps in through my closed eyelids, painting the inside of my skull as red and painful as freshly spilled blood. _Shh,_ he soothes again as I struggle to draw breath. My nails dig into the flesh of my shins. Something soft is draped over my head, then tightened over my eyes and ears with a few deft movement.

The world goes utterly silent, and I’m so shocked by the sudden change that I startle badly, jerking away. He catches my flailing hands, holding them securely between his warm, overlarge palms.

It doesn’t hurt.

I go still. _It doesn’t hurt._ The band loosens. My heart settles in my chest for what feels like the first time in eternity.

I feel the smile in his mental voice. _Is it working, dear one?_

 _Yes,_ I respond. I’m coherent, I’m not in agony, and it’s incredible. I haven’t been able to touch anyone (anything) in a long time. I reach out until he gets the message and pulls me over and up onto his lap, where it’s warm and safe and not painful. _What did you do?_

 _We collaborated,_ he says, and I get an image of he and Námo and Estё and Nienna, all clustered around Vairё’s loom, Singing together with linked hands as she weaves something soft and colorful. _I am only sorry it took so long for us to find a solution._

But now my tears are from gratitude and soul-deep relief as I lean into him, wrapping my arms around him tightly as I impress my wordless thanks upon his mind.

 _You are quite welcome, dear one,_ says Irmo.


End file.
